


You Want It Darker

by orphan_account



Series: A-Z of Kink: House [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Dominant Bottom, Explicit Sexual Content, Kinda Fluffy, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Infarction (House M.D.), Pre-Series, Sir Kink, collar kink, dysfunction, low-key codependency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR INTERACT WITH THIS FIC IF YOU ARE UNDER 18.A-Z of Kink: C is for CollarSummary: House bailed Wilson out of jail because he seemed interesting. Or so the story goes.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Series: A-Z of Kink: House [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620808
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	You Want It Darker

**Author's Note:**

> this series is gonna be coming in very slowly.
> 
> title plagiarised from Leonard Cohen.

Like most addictions, it started completely by accident.

At least, House thinks it did. He's never quite sure of who Wilson really is when they go to bed, and the puzzle it creates infuriates him. But something in that drives him wild; there's just something so unusually _intoxicating_ about not being able to figure it out, in having to just live with it. Perhaps that's it – the powerlessness of it. The surrender.

It's becoming quite a theme, that. He's never been into it with anyone else. But things are always different with Wilson. For a start, he's somebody that House actually enjoys being around, however begrudgingly so. More surprisingly, Wilson seems to like him too. At least, he's given no indication that he intends to go away. Yet.

House is always right. No one knows that better than him; but he did doubt himself, at least briefly, at least a little, that night he followed this total stranger, this agitated idiot who _really_ hated Billy Joel, down to that police station in New Orleans. The best explanation he had for why he bailed him out all those months ago was, “you seemed interesting.”

It wasn't logical. It didn't make sense. But House figured it was okay, because "interesting" always makes sense eventually.

Not this time.

This time, “interesting” led to gazes held a little too long, brushes of hands after one too many beers. “Interesting” is the way Wilson kissed him goodbye one night, only on the cheek, but House let him, and he felt the ghost of those lips on his skin for days. “Interesting” only begins to cover the furious kissing and grinding that soon became commonplace on their evenings together, "interesting" is the question of just _why_ they played it safe like that, no nudity, no touching, for months.

They progressed to “fascinating,” House theorises, some weeks ago. Perhaps it was inevitable, the urgency that arose from their self-imposed denial of each other's bodies; the hunger that had them stumbling into Wilson's apartment one night, mouths and limbs locked together, not even bothering to turn the lights on as manic hands tore buttons clean off shirts. House recalls the fervency with which Wilson pushed him up against the wall in the living room, panting as he grabbed his hips and slammed their groins together. He can clearly picture Wilson lying naked beneath him on the bed, remember how his greed to taste and touch and take every inch of him was barely reigned in by the need to savour the moment. Wilson had a better handle on himself; he could concentrate enough to tell House exactly which spots to kiss on his neck, his thighs. To instruct House clearly on how to touch him, to describe the exact speed and rhythm at which he liked to be fucked.

That was when “fascinating” progressed to the advanced stage of “what in the living fuck is fucking _happening_?” The same sentence reverberates around his brain every time they do this; every time Wilson digs his nails into House's ass with a furious demand of “_harder_.” It echoes when he has his lips wrapped around Wilson's cock, when Wilson's hand grips the back of his head, directing his rhythm. He's careful with it. He never pushes him too far down. But he's firm. In control.

Before all this, House had pegged Wilson, nice, bumbling Wilson, as the type who'd want to hold hands during sex, who'd probably rather do it with the lights off, who'd blush as vulgar exclamations of ecstasy turned the air blue. But instead, Wilson is bossy and demanding. And House is... well... _into_ it.

Tonight, they haven't made it to the bedroom. They're on the couch, and Wilson is riding him. His eyes are fixed on House's, not breaking their gaze for a moment, and he's flushed and breathless. His hands are on House's biceps, pinning him to the backrest, holding him still as he rocks his hips and moans and mumbles barely coherent expressions of pleasure. House aches to touch him, to rake his fingertips across his bare chest and watch Wilson shudder as his sensitised skin burns electric; longs to grab the back of his neck and yank him forward for a fierce, wanton kiss. But his arms are pinned at his sides, and Wilson's bruising grip seems to want to keep them there, and something inside of him doesn't want to protest.

Wilson's rhythm is slow, steady. Teasing. House feels deprived, and it's maddening, and he wants more; but really, he can't bring himself to mind that he isn't getting it. He's come to understand that he'll get more when Wilson is ready to give it to him. Being inside of him is so good, just so fucking _good_, and he's almost grateful to be there.

_What in the living fuck is fucking happening?_

But he knows he likes it. He knows that he can't help the way he arches his chest into Wilson's when their lips brush, as if to communicate how greedy he is for his kiss. He's powerless to his whimpers when Wilson's mouth slips down and mauls his jaw, when his teeth graze his neck before biting down as if he were devouring him. The flush, the sting, is delicious, and he bucks his hips, his movement entirely involuntary.

Wilson grunts in surprise, tearing his mouth away. “Hey. Keep _still_."

House slackens his body against the couch, pressing his hips into the backrest as if to stop himself from repeating the motion. He hears himself whisper, “yes.” Not “okay.” Not, “jeez, sorry.” But, _yes_. Somehow so much more obedient. Does he want to go all out and add “Master” to the end of that sentence?

Wilson grins, an expression slightly disfigured with pleasure. “You really seem to like it when I tell you what to do.”

He bites his lip, rocking his hips slightly faster; and amidst the increased friction on his cock, beneath the moan he can't help but release, House eyes the glaze of sweat over Wilson's forehead, the evidence of his exertion. It's a stupid thing to focus on, but it somehow turns the volume down on his statement. Wilson has never... _said_ anything about it, which is bizarre, because House is coming to learn that Wilson needs to talk about fucking _everything. _If he were anyone else that facet of his personality alone would be enough for House to drive him back to New Orleans, turn him in for a string of made up offences and ask the cops to keep him. But then again, Wilson isn't anyone else. He isn't just _anyone_.

So House should be able to talk about this. He should be able to respond with the first words that come to his head in response to that statement: _Fuck, yes_. _Dominate me. Own me. Take me. More_.

No one tells House what to do. Except Wilson. And the fact that Wilson seems to know it makes him feel like he's been stripped to the bone.

“House. Hey.”

When Wilson's grip softens, House is startled enough to meet his eyes. There's something else there now: concern. God, he gets that look enough when they're not doing this. Usually it's accompanied by huffing; narrowed eyes, like Wilson thinks he's being assertive. _“If you get hammered tonight, I'm not leaving my apartment at 3 in the morning to come get you,” _ he'll say, with his hands on his hips. Or, “_I'm not gonna keep covering for you when you perform unauthorised procedures. I'm not doing it, House.”_

He always does, though. Wilson is great at the theatrics of saying no. He just can't ever execute the real thing.

No wonder he gets so much out of pushing House around in bed.

“House,” he says again, and the realisation that Wilson has stopped moving on top of him summons him back to the present. The concern has spread to his voice, and as a hand moves to cup his cheek, the pad of his thumb grazing stubble, House stares at him dumbly. Such tender gestures don't usually come until afterwards when they're spent and sweating and House suddenly realises how much his neck stings from Wilson's compulsive biting.

“_Wilson_,” he responds, trying to imitate Wilson's tone, the one he's started to dub The Cancer Voice. But there's a disconnect between his mouth and his brain – also fucking new – and his name rolls off his tongue like a plea.

If Wilson notices, he's too caught up in his own bewilderment to say anything. “You do like this, right?” There's a hint of fear there, but also amazement, like he can't believe this either. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Don't stop.” The immediacy, the desperation of his response stuns them both; the lack of snark, the flat out straight answer. Wilson's mouth opens a little, and House has to close his eyes as the rush of vulnerability overwhelms him. As he adds, in a whisper, “I... I want _more_ of it.”

Wilson gives a wordless murmur, something like affection, or maybe approval. That thumb doesn't stop stroking his face as he responds, just as softly, “I can give you more.”

Their clothes are discarded across the couch, spilling onto the floor, a heap of pants and shirts and socks. When Wilson releases the arm he still holds to grope around the pile, that hand still on his face, House doesn't move. He watches, intrigued, apprehensive, as Wilson rummages around before tugging out his tie, the one that House had sleepily called uglier than the devil's asshole that morning. Wilson is definitely far too sprightly at the crack of dawn. House knows this because Wilson rarely sleeps at his own apartment these days.

That probably requires some thought at some point. But right now, Wilson is making a loop with his tie, and House is breathless with anticipation as their eyes meet and he catches something he's only seen flashes of before; a hunger that can't be explained by lust alone. Something almost predatory. Something that makes him look nothing like Wilson at all, and House is enthralled.

When he raises the tie, House wonders for a moment if Wilson is going to blindfold him, and it briefly perturbs him to realise that he's not entirely averse to the idea; then, when Wilson slips it around his neck instead, he's suddenly energised and fervent. He resumes his movements on House's cock, and House sucks in a ragged breath as his speed quickly escalates. He's so distracted by the sensation, Wilson's walls so hot and tight around him, that he stops wondering about the tie at all until he feels the soft material digging into the back of his neck.

“I was just thinking,” Wilson breathes, slipping his hand beneath the tie, the backs of his fingers brushing House's throat as he tugs again, “about how fucking incredible you'd look with a collar around your neck. Would you like that?”

House bites his lip, fighting not to buck his hips into Wilson at the thought. He nods, fierce, uninhibited. “Fuck, yes.”

Wilson grins his approval. “It's a shame I don't have a real one with me. So for now...” He tugs on the tie again, and House whimpers, euphoric, desperate. “This will have to do. Next time, though... I'll bring you mine...”

As he leans down to graze his teeth against House's jaw, House almost pulls away, not recognising the feeling prickling in his chest. Is that... shock? “You... you own a _collar_?”

He can feel Wilson grin against his chin. It strikes him that he's taking some kind of pleasure in his amazement. “You'd be surprised at what I own, House.”

_God, I love you._

For a moment, just for a fraction of a moment, it _almost_ slips out. Fuck. That was close.

Instead, House chances reaching up to grab Wilson's hips. He doesn't want to control his movements, he just wants to fucking _touch_ him, but no sooner have his palms brushed the tender flesh there has Wilson grabbed his wrists and thrown them back against the couch. House whines, needy, disappointed, until Wilson grips his shoulders again, holding him firmly in place as he starts to rock his hips, hard, baring his teeth as he gives a guttural moan at the sensation. House's head lolls against the backrest, his body alight with pleasure. Wilson feels so fucking _good_, so incredible, and he wants to tell him, wants to say so much, but the words are scrambled in his mind, trampled into dust by exquisite images of being collared for Wilson. He imagines how heavy the thick leather would feel around his neck, how the buckle fastened at the back would cool his flushed skin. How Wilson would hook his finger beneath the ring at the front, tugging and jerking as he rides him, yanking him forward for a kiss as fierce as his gaze...

Wilson laughs quietly, brushing his lips against House's forehead. “Yeah. You'd look perfect wearing my collar, darling. My little pet...”

House's eyelids flutter at this, his cock twitching so furiously he fears he'll cum there and then. “_Yes,_” he finds himself responding in a slurred moan, “want to be your pet, oh god...”

Wilson _growls_, his fingers twisting in the tie again until House gasps at the pressure on his neck. “Do you want to please me, pet? Would you do as you're told for me?”

“Anything you say.” He feels drunk, high, like he's in fucking space. It's not just the tight heat around his cock, not just Wilson's perfect rhythm, friction. It's something deeper. Something that shuts off his head almost entirely, something that scrambles his coherence.

The way Wilson regards him as he holds that fucking tie – some mixture of affection, admiration and utter _passion – _really isn't helping. “_So._” The hand on his shoulder tightens until his fingernails are digging into his flesh, and House savours the twinge of pain. Feels good. “If I told you to get on your knees for me...” He trails off for a moment, releasing a shuddering gasp. “Open your mouth for my cock... you'd do it?”

“_Yes,_” he breathes, like he's never been more certain of anything in his life. Actually, he hasn't.

Wilson licks his lips, and House can see his own ecstasy mirrored in his face. “Very good, pet. And what would you call me while you were on your knees for me?”

“I...” House falters. He doesn't know how to answer that one. What Wilson expects. He goes with, “anything you fucking _want_.”

And he means it. It doesn't frighten him that he means it, and _that_ frightens him.

The thought process is brought to an abrupt stop when he notices the way Wilson is smiling down at him, his own amazement at this... _them_... poorly masked by his lust-darkened eyes, his ragged, hungry breaths. “Hmm,” he murmurs. “I'd like you to call me Sir. What do you think to that?”

House's pulse thunders, and he feels his jaw fall slack. “You can't,” he manages, when his heart starts again, “ask me something like that then expect me to be able to fucking _think_.”

Wilson laughs, soft, affectionate. The silky material of the tie brushes against House's throat as he moves above him, and he shudders as his brain registers the sensation. “I'll take that as a yes.”

As House nods his agreement, Wilson's grip is demanding on House's wrist as he tugs it off the couch cushions, where his hand is clawing aimlessly at the leather material beneath. House watches as he places it on his cock, hard and flushed and moist at the head. He stares for a moment as his fingers curl around it, feeling the weight of it in his hand, silky and firm and all for _him_. It amazes him that he can do this to Wilson.

Wilson gasps, his eyes closing at the sensation. “That's right, pet. Do it the way I showed you.”

House keeps his gaze focused on Wilson's cock, fisting his length in that fast rhythm he likes. Not too much pressure, he remembers. He knows to graze his thumb over the slit occasionally. He's learned not to think about it too much; a lot of it is muscle memory at this point anyway. If he concentrates too hard, a bit like he's doing now, he'll get it wrong, and then Wilson won't be pleased with him.

He hates how unbearable that thought feels.

“Fuck, yes,” Wilson grunts above him. A finger hooks beneath his jaw, tilting House's head up to meet his eyes. “That's good. You're doing so _well_ for me.”

House doesn't need validation from anyone. Generally, he's almost as apathetic towards praise as he is to criticism, but sometimes, it nudges something in him, something that hurts. Something that makes him want to take a verbal lunge at whoever dared show him approval, to belittle them. In another setting, he might snap at Wilson for a comment like that, or make the kind of joke that earns him an eyeroll and a sigh that would glean awards for passive aggression. But it always turns out okay.

Because Wilson always stays. Wilson won't allow himself to be shoved away, no matter what House says to him. No matter what he does.

Wilson is fucking crazy.

Wilson is fucking _everything_.

Fierce moans synchronise between them as they chase release. Wilson's once perfect rhythm is now slightly more erratic, distracted by House's ministrations on his cock, but he's fast and aggressive and House is writhing beneath him, his thighs quivering with pleasure.

When Wilson tugs on the tie, hard enough to jerk his head forward until their faces are centimetres apart, House's eyes roll to the back of his head. “So,” he murmurs. “You definitely want to do this with me?”

“Yes,” House breathes. Experimentally, he adds, “_Sir_.”

Wilson grins, his eyes aflame with arousal. The hand still on his shoulder snakes behind him, until Wilson's arm is around his neck, pulling him in closer. Almost an embrace. As their chests touch, slick skin firmly pressed together, House whines, needy, craving the intimacy.

“Tell me, pet.” Wilson is breathless, fighting out the words. “Have you ever been fucked before?”

Well. House has been expecting Wilson to ask him this for a while. It still takes him aback; still has him hesitating for a moment, as he considers how he might respond to the inevitable question that will follow this one.

Fuck it. It's not like they both don't already know the answer. He fights the urge to break Wilson's gaze as he almost whispers, “never been fucked. But you can fuck me, Wil- Sir. Doesn't... doesn't matter with you.” There's that disconnect between brain and mouth again, and he's helpless to it as he adds, “nothing matters with you. Don't... don't care about anything... when I'm with you...”

_What?_

What the fuck did Wilson slip in his beer earlier? He must be high. Must be so beyond wasted, so beyond any scrap of logical thought, to let these things spill from his lips. He's instantly embarrassed, and he's uncertain, and the shocked look on Wilson's face forces his eyes closed. Wilson halts on top of him, and House's hand slows on his cock to a complete standstill.

_What the living fuck is fucking happening? _

This can't even _be_ happening. None of this can be really happening. It's just a little too offbeat, a little too chaotic, and House can hardly stand it. He can hardly stand how soft and moist Wilson's lips feel as they meet his own, how tender his kiss is now in contrast to the brutality of his others this evening. How Wilson lets go of the tie around his neck altogether, leaving it to hang limply, the loose ends trapped between them as his hands find House's face. This time, he doesn't stop House from reaching out to touch him. Doesn't shove him off in a sadistic game of denial as House wraps his spare arm around his waist, holding him, holding Wilson, like he never gets to do during these encounters.

And House lets himself just feel it. Just like he does when Wilson takes control. Just like he does when the lights are off and they're in bed, half-asleep, limbs intertwined in an embrace he's too tired to analyse, too spent to allow it to be anything other than just what it is. House can do it. He can just let this, be _this_, without needing to question it. He can, he can, he can...

And Wilson murmurs something against his lips, something that sounds like, “me too,” and any faint questions House may have had about whether or not he should regret opening his stupid mouth are completely pulverised. He draws out of the kiss first, catching his smile before it can escape onto his lips, because that really would be saying too much.

Thankfully, Wilson seems to know this. Wilson always knows.

He resumes his rhythm as if he'd never stopped, and House curses loudly, bucking up against him. In an instant, Wilson's hand is on the tie again, giving a tug that sends a shockwave of pain down House's spine. “What have I told you about keeping still for me, pet?”

House whimpers, resuming his ministrations on Wilson's cock. He feels a pang of satisfaction at the moan he evokes, the way it throws the focus of his eyes off balance. His voice emerges quiet, contrite: “I'll keep still, Sir.”

“Perfect. So willing for me.” Wilson presses a soft kiss to his head, his breaths escalating as he rocks his hips with fervour, and his little moans nudge House closer to the edge. “I can't wait to fuck you, pet. I can see you on your hands and knees for me... collared...” Another kiss, a softer tug on the tie, “fucking _begging_ for me...”

He gasps, trailing off, and House can tell from his twitching lips, his rigid thighs, that he's close too. He increases his pace on Wilson's cock, just like he's been taught when he can see Wilson nearing the edge. He's rewarded with a moaning sigh, a purr of “good boy,” and House is fucking _glowing_, and he can't help it.

Wilson licks his lips, pressing his cheek to House's. “You,” he whispers in his ear, “belong to _me._”

The declaration snatches away the last of House's sanity, and the world around him falls to pieces as he cums harder than he ever has in his life.


End file.
